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From: Andrew Roller <roller39@IDT.NET>
Subject: Love Child part 8 of 15 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
LOVE CHILD
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Eight
Melissa and I were permitted to spend the entire next day
resting from our labors. When I awoke, late in the afternoon, my
titties were still sore. The tips of the cones had been sucked on
ardently, by everyone. Even the ladies. I walked awkwardly to the
bathroom, my legs stiff. When I sat down on the toilet to have a pee
and B/M my anus protested at being stretched once more, even if just to
let out my turds. Melissa came stumbling in a few minutes later.
Weakly she plopped down in my lap, facing me, and shitted out her own
cum-laced logs. Neither of us spoke. We just moaned softly, groaning,
enjoying the sweet fatigue, the tenderness. It meant we'd performed our
duties well, in the bedchamber, the room with the mats. Everyone young
woman admires herself when her groom takes her and she is able to meet
his expectations. I'd been made to work hard by three men, and their
wives, yet I'd come through it all with their compliments. They'd
praised me and carried me up to the bedroom at last; limp, listless, my
mouth practically drowning in semen, my cunt overflowing with it.
Open-mouthed I was gently laid upon the bedsheets. They arranged my
legs, admiring their slimness. I no longer had the power to control
them. My will was sapped at last. I'd been gagged, ungagged, threaded
with dildoes, impaled on cocks. I felt like a rag doll, cast off
merchandise in a Goodwill store. But each lady kissed me, patted my
forehead.
"You've done well, dear, very well," a female voice whispered.
I cannot now remember who it was.
As we pooped out the last of our shit Melissa and I kissed
suddenly, her small hands resting on my narrow shoulders. I let my own
hands steal around her waist.
"There will be more, much more, you know," I warned when our
lips broke apart finally.
"I know," she breathed.
"We are wanted for our bodies," I pointed out.
"Yes," she said. We kissed again, as abruptly and passionately
as before. Excited at what lay before us, yet fearful, we took a moment
of comfort in the sweetness, the familiarity, of each other. We would
face together whatever challenges the adult world confronted us with.
The evening was spent pleasantly enough, with Gretchen and
Melissa and I playing dominoes. Robert took Mark to a meeting of the
Woodsman's Club. It was a men's hunting club, Gretchen said. She
insisted we turn in early.
The next morning Gretchen let us sleep in late. When she
finally woke us, she said we were wanted for a picnic. A bit later I
heard a crunching of tires on the gravel drive. Peering out the window,
trying to hide my bare titties behind a length of the windowcurtain, I
saw a large black limousine. A gorgeous young golden-haired woman
stepped out of it. Her tresses were breathtaking, flowing all the way
down to her waist, even beyond it. She wore elegant clothes, almost
formal. Melissa, bare breasted like myself, came up behind me and gazed
down at her.
"Maybe she is here for our picnic," Melissa said.
"I hope so. She's very beautiful," I replied.
A little later I heard the woman speaking downstairs, to
Gretchen.
"The girls, they are not entirely virgin, I hope? They have
been broken in?" she asked.
"Yes, they proved themselves to be quite hardy little rabbits
in the mat room the other night," Gretchen replied. To my amazement I
realized they were speaking of me and Melissa. "Of course, they are
just delicate little schoolgirls really, one must be careful not to push
them too hard. But we gave them a good workout all the same."
"That is good," the blonde woman said. "I shall enjoy taking
them on a picnic, I think. The sunshine and fresh air will be good for
them after being cooped up in the house for a few days."
"I'm sure they'll appreciate it," Gretchen replied. There was
a kind of cat's meow in her voice and I shivered at the thought that our
"picnic" might not be entirely just some innocent outing.
About an hour later the blonde woman, whom I'd since learned to
call Gwendolyn, was riding in the back of her limo with us, through a
deep forest. Her husband, or lover (I was never sure which), was there
also. With him was a young girl, barely older than myself. She was
totally nude. Gwen's husband had been disporting with her in the limo
while Gwen herself was inside talking to Gretchen.
When I'd first gotten into the limo I'd been made almost
breathless by the sight of the girl. Her hair was tied up by a pretty
blue bow. But there were bruises on her face. They were light ones, to
be sure, but visible all the same. She looked at me sheepishly, her
fine upstanding tits still wet at the points with saliva. She had been
rubbing the crotch of Gwen's husband, who was clothed, but when I
scooted in she stilled her hand. The man himself told me his name was
Nick, but said nothing of the girl, as if she were just an ornament.
Nick was ruggedly, roughly handsome, like a burly longshoreman, but he
wore the finest tailored clothes you might ever hope to see on a man.
Hesitantly I took my place in the limo. Melissa soon joined
me, and was as surprised as I at the sight of the unclad girl. The two
of us had dressed in panties, cutoffs, and sleeveless tank tops which
left our bellies bare. We also wore ankle socks and sneakers. Melissa
had been fussy about dressing. We'd been running around naked for
several days and I think she just wanted to go on being a little Indian,
scampering about in the all-together. But when she saw the nude,
bruised girl I think she thanked herself for putting on some clothes.
But we'd both insisted on going without bras. Now, as we sat across
from Nick, we were both acutely aware of our puffed, cherry red nipples
indenting our tight little tops. If you looked you could see the
redness of our nipples through our shirts. Nick glanced at both of us,
registering our titties with his eyes. Gwen slipped in then and her
chauffeur shut the car door, closing us all in together.
"This is Candy, she's a friend of Nick and myself," Gwen said.
Melissa and I nodded our hellos at the girl and she smiled shyly back at
us.
At the end of an hour's ride the limo halted. We'd stopped
once before, at a gas station, where Gwen had invited Melissa and I into
a little shop to pick up our favorite sodas, lunchmeats, and cheeses.
She said she thought we might like the picnic better if we got to eat
some of our favorite foods for a change, instead of just what somebody
served us. Then we'd gotten back into the limo, only to find Candy on
her knees giving Nick a blow job. For the first time I saw her
derriere. I gasped. There were welts on it. As I slid my own ass
across the seat of the limo I watched wide-eyed as Candy lovingly
applied her tongue and mouth to Nick's cock. She seemed well trained in
the art of the blow job and she did it with consummate skill. I sat
entranced, soon joined by Melissa, as Candy gave us both silent lessons
in how to love a man's cock. Gwen smiled as she slipped in, unruffled
by the attention Candy was giving her husband. The girl's head bobbed
as she began taking him more deeply. She forced his cock into her
throat. The limo pulled away from the service station. Melissa and I
glanced at each other, apprehensive. We were leaving civilization
behind.
Now as we got out we found ourselves amongst tall, dark trees.
Nick and Candy got out here also. Only the limo driver remained inside
the car.
No path was visible from the roadway, but Gwen seemed to know
where to go. She led us into the wood, the picnic basket hanging from
her arm, Melissa following with a little cooler of sodas, myself
carrying the blanket, which was actually made of smooth terrycloth.
We soon found ourself in a shady glen. Beyond a little brook
babbled quietly to itself. Amidst shafts of sunlight birds sang in the
overhead canopy. Gwen pointed to a splash of sunlight on the grass and
I unfurled our terrycloth there. Nick was the first to sit down on it,
as Melissa and Gwen put down their basket and cooler. I settled onto
the blanket next, then watched as Candy, still standing, bent over at
the waist and kissed Nick on the mouth. He had not ejaculated from her
ministrations and his tool, now inside his breeches once more, made a
visible lump between his legs. Candy whispered that she wished to go
bathe in the brook and he gave her his permission. Gaily she tripped
off across the grass, my eyes following her, free as a bird and yet
utterly captive to the will of Nick.
"Girls, we must undress, for Nick wishes to admire our charms,"
Gwen said, breaking my momentary reverie. Alone in the forest with only
Melissa, I had little doubt that Nick could force me to undress if I
refused. I stood up. Reluctantly I took hold of the hem of my tank
top. When I pulled it up, over my titties, they wiggled alluringly,
nakedly, their stiff peaks dancing in the sunlight. At the same time
Melissa's tits popped out too, as girlishly charming as my own, jiggling
about freely as she took off her shirt.
With Nick's eyes pasted on my tits I reached down and offered
him another view. I unzipped the front of my denim cutoffs. I slipped
them down, his eyes now fixed on my white cotton panties. I hoped Gwen
would let me keep these, and made to kneel back down on the terrycloth.
"No dear, the panties must come off also," Gwen told me.
Melissa seemed glad to be rid of her panties. She stripped them right
off, unabashedly, glad to be back in her birthday suit. Perhaps she had
some Indian blood in her veins.
The two of us, both initiates at nude picnicking, sat down on
the terry cloth and tucked our heels expectantly beneath our rumps. The
sun shone brightly on our white bottoms. The air was cool, in perfect
counterpoise to the sunshine. We were neither too hot nor too cold.
Gwen stripped off all her clothing except for a very flimsy
vest made of soft animal skin. I had not noticed it under her
businesslike jacket and vest, which now lay discarded on the forest
lawn. The vest had served as a kind of bra, but she untied it now,
unhurriedly, except for two strands which she left in place across her
midsection. They were very loosely joined, doing nothing to protect her
bosoms, which spilled out between the opened halves of the vest. Her
breasts were large and milk-white, with nipples already drawn into stiff
points.
Two little spaghetti strap-like cords allowed Gwen's vest to
hang from her shoulders. The whole affair looked like it might come off
at any moment. Hanging across her upper arms were two more cords, on
either side, strung with tiny brown puka-shell beads. They did nothing
to keep her vest up but made it look all the prettier. I saw for the
first time that Gwen's throat was bound with a braided choker. It was
knotted closed over her throat and two braided ends of the choker
dangled partway down her chest. She looked like a Pocahontas who
someone had laid claim to by tying a makeshift collar around her neck.
Maybe Nick had done it. Without her dress on I saw for the first time
her footwear. She did not wear heels, as I had imagined, but moccasin
boots. They came up to the tops of her calves, leaving her knees bare,
and were cuffed along the top. They seemed deliciously tight, as if to
accent her nudity by binding her legs in calfskin. Her feet and calves
were imprisoned, protected, above them her skinny legs stretched
nakedly, merging at last with a plump bottom.
As Gwen settled on the terrycloth she drew a slim strap from
the picnic basket. It was long, cut from rawhide. Melissa and I
shifted uneasily as Gwen, kneeling but with her bottom still in the air,
thighs apart, bush displayed, glanced from the strap to us.
"Oooh, you girls look like you've never seen a strap before!"
Gwen said compassionately, consolingly, yet with her lips pursed in a
mocking half-smile. Her long, golden hair shimmered in the sunlight.
She brushed it back to keep her breasts fully revealed. "Nick, would
you like them spanked before or after our little picnic?" Gwen asked,
turning to her husband. I realized then that this would be a new sort
of picnic from any I'd ever gone on before, quite unlike those of my
childhood. Did all adults go on picnics like this?
"After, I suppose," Nick said absently, carelessly. Obviously
the strap wasn't meant for him!
"Will it hurt?" Melissa blurted out foolishly. She was staring
at the thing with eyes as big as saucers, seeming suddenly a bit
regretful that she'd disposed of her clothing so quickly.
"Well of course it will, darling," Gwen assured her, smiling,
turning her eyes upon the girl. "Young ladies must be given a good
spanking now and then, and of course it must hurt. What would be the
point otherwise? It keeps you properly obedient. Everyone knows the
problem with girls these days is they have no discipline in their
lives. Their parents let them get away with all sorts of things!"
With that little lecture complete, Gwen asked Melissa and I to
serve the food. We did so with trembling hands, eyeing the whip with
our peripheral vision. A cool breeze washed over my hiney as I parceled
out the food, kneeing my way over the blanket to give each person their
share. I knew my tush would soon be blazing, and I relished the feel of
the chilly air upon it.
Melissa and I were very conscious of our bottoms throughout the
meal. I suppose, in the end, that was the intent, to heighten our
awareness of our vulnerability, our nudity. This was, obviously, no
ordinary picnic, but an erotic one. The presence, the promise of the
strap kept us thinking of how we were utterly naked, out in the
wilderness, far from any help civilization might provide. Occasionally
Gwen stroked the strap, as if to remind us of it. We ate daintily,
though, for we were expected to be well-mannered, even though we were
buck naked. Nick expected his females to be proper young ladies at all
times. Gwen assured us we'd receive extra strokes if we let our manners
slip. In the distance Candy played in the river. She had no wish to
get any closer to the strap than she had to.
In the evening we returned with smarting bottoms to Gretchen.
Naked, clutching our hineys with both hands, we trooped into her cabin,
our faces stained with tears, still sniffling and sobbing. Nick had
given us each a final, farewell "sendoff" in the back of the limo before
letting us out. Gwen came in after us, exchanged smiles with Gretchen.
"I see they've kept you busy this afternoon," Gretchen said to
Gwen.
"They proved to be quite a little pair of temptresses," Gwen
replied. Nick couldn't resist their darling little bottoms. He whacked
them with great gusto.
"Don't worry, I'll see to them," Gretchen replied. "Have a
lovely time with Candy."
"She's proving to be the perfect slave," Gwen said. "I only
hope Nick doesn't ever enslave me to one of his friends."
"You never know," Gretchen replied, and indeed she was right.
No sooner had my bottom assumed its perfect whiteness once more
than Gretchen packed me off to a party, without Melissa. She told me I
was to be a slave, no bones about it. I protested, but she said I was
simply too young and beautiful to be left lying about the cabin. The
last few days had been languid ones and I did not wish to break the
spell. Summer had always been a special time to me and this summer
seemed especially perfect, despite the overzealous men one met with
straps. The recent picnic, indeed, glowed in my memory with a kind of
twisted sweetness. Never before had I felt so alive, so free, even as I
crouched under the trees and felt my bottom smacked by the strap,
weeping. The meal, eating nude, with our fingers, spilling morsels on
our chests, yet keeping up an air of silly dignity through it all, as if
dining with the King himself. The punishment, richly undeserved, all
the more erotic because it was. The ride home, unable to sit, crouched
on the patent leather couches of the limo, poor bottoms lofted high,
burning, wiggling, to the endless delight of Nick. And finally the
utter humiliation of returning to Gretchen, the perfect woman, bawling
like babies. Yet despite the odd thrill of the picnic I did not want to
embark on another one. With Gretchen and Robert I could just laze
about, sunning myself in the back yard, or loitering with Melissa in the
bath. Now she was requiring me to venture forth once again, to be
tested, trained. It was, she said, the only way I would ever become
truly versed in the art of love. Lying about the house was merely the
idleness of the the teenager, unfulfilled, unfulfilling. Anyone could
waste one's days doing that. Robert, still off with Mark at the
Woodsman's Retreat (it turned out not to be a mere meeting as we'd first
been told), was unavailable. Melissa and I would have to be trained by
others. And my time had come to be trained apart from Melissa. I was
older than she, a young woman. I must go alone.
Silently I approached the door of the home where the soiree was
to be held. It was dusk. Behind me, the limo driver waited to see that
I got inside. I wished he hadn't. I wouldn't have gone. But I
knocked, biting my lip, as he looked on. No doubt he was eyeing the
backs of my stockinged thighs where they stood out firmly beneath my
short dress. It was yellow, decollete, my boobs packed within its tight
confines, barely contained. The sleeves of the dress were gathered,
fluffy, came down to my elbows. Underneath it I wore no panties, only a
garter belt and hose, fastened up by garter straps.
The door opened. I was met by a woman with a prominent bust.
Happily she wiggled her boobies as she greeted me. She looked about 30,
and told me her name was Rose.
"You must be Barbi," the woman smiled. I nodded. "Come in,
we're delighted to have you!"
I was brought into a room with ten or twelve people. All, like
Rose, were stylishly dressed. They greeted me warmly. I was given a
glass of wine, offered canapes on a silver tray. I passed over the ones
topped with caviar and anchovies and chose one with swiss cheese. It
tasted delicious as I bit into it, delicately, trying not to make
crumbs.
The conversation was light, airy, sophisticated. Finally Rose
drew me aside, to an ornate table. There were no chairs nearby, I
noticed, as she pointed out a heavy leatherbound book lying on the
table. Absently I perched my bottom on the table as she opened the
book.
"Photographs of Recent Meetings of the Club," I read, in
tiffany lettering, on the book's title page. Two men sidled up next to
me. Three more stood not far away. The closest man told me to hike up
my dress. He said the book must not be viewed by a woman unless her
pussy was bared first, especially a newcomer.
"The pictures are...revealing, dear," Rose explained. "There
are even some of me in there. It would not be polite for you to see us
in the buff unless you were nude also, or at least were exposing your
pussy to us." Anxiously I hiked up my dress. My hair was loose about
me and I knew I looked absolutely ravishing. A moment later the backs
of my thighs were pressed into the edge of the table, skin against wood,
and my pussy was revealed. I plucked at the straps of my garters. They
framed my pussy nicely, the belt above, the tops of my stockings below.
I did not close my legs completely. I knew they must have their view.
Rose then showed me the contents of the book. I gasped,
clutching my garter straps with my hands, as picture after picture
revealed women in poses of the most degrading bondage. Beautiful women
were being hit with bats, bruised, their lovely bodies threatened to be
broken in two by incredible machines designed to rend human flesh.
Amidst scenes of crying and weeping men peed boldly into the faces of
the females, paying no attention to their imprecations. One girl was
even shown with her mouth forced open by a special gag, a man crouching
above her releasing a fresh turd into it. I shivered as I looked at
these pictures, my earrings, bracelets, shimmering. Except for my bared
pussy I was the picture of female elegance.
Gradually the shock of the pictures gave way to arousal. I
found I couldn't tear my eyes from them! What really got to me was how
many of the women in the photos were ones in this very room, that I'd
just spent long minutes conversing with. Despite the horrors portrayed
in the book they had not been killed, or injured, just demeaned, bruised
a little, welted here and there. Trained.
My sex pulsed between my thighs. I let a finger slip from its
hold on one of my garter straps. Lightly I stroked the lips of my
pussy, hardly realizing I was doing it. My sex moistened. Rose kept
turning the pages, slowly, showing me new wonders. I rubbed myself
more, gasped, sought my clitty with a naughty fingertip.
"Ooosh!" I breathed suddenly, my eyes alighting upon an
especially devilish scene. A girl was installed on a kind of upright
seat and had been drawn open like some bird about to be stuffed. Her
twat stared out at me, still coy and pretty, but there was no hope for
it. Legs impossibly wide, secured with iron clamps, something already
up her butt, it pulsed silently, waiting to be burrowed into by a long
line of men with huge erections.
I gazed about the room. Some of those men were here!
"Ooofsh!" I grunted, a female animal in heat, as suddenly a wave of
passion washed over me. I pressed my fingertips hard against my cunny.
I rubbed it furiously.
"No! Please!" I cried, as men took hold of my upper arms and
lifted me bodily. Yet I could not take my hand off my puss as they
carried me, upright, heels kicking in the air.
They took me into an adjoining room. It was equipped like a
dungeon. They set me down before a woman who stared at me unblinking,
her eyes cold. Yet she was luscious in her coldness. Her hair was
loose about her face, shoulder length, brown and slightly curled. She
wore a loose black neckerchief about her throat, tied in front in a
simple knot, the ends flaring out to rest upon her chest. Below the
ends of the neckerchief rose the hillocks of her breasts. They came to
fine uptilted points, nipples hard, areolaes large as silver dollars and
lightly rouged. Her bosoms were snow white, surrounded by exquisitely
tanned flesh. Not a mark was upon it anywhere, though I knew she hadn't
risen to the position of domme without suffering many torments indeed.
Jill, as I was soon to know her, or Mistress Jill, wore the
most amazing tank top. ‘Flashdance’ must have gone crazy inspiring this
one, for it had been utterly cut away so that only the midriff remained,
suspended uselessly beneath her naked breasts. Slim strands, no more,
traversed upward from the halter's remaining bit of fabric, crossing
over Jill's shoulders to keep the flimsy non-garment from falling off.
The strands didn't even attempt to pass over the tips of Jill's breasts,
‘Vampirilla’-style, but avoided them completely, one snaking up between
her boobs and the other meekly going around the outside of one.
Jill's boobs shook freely as she took a step toward me. Her
eyes seemed implacable. I trembled uncontrollably. Fixed by her stare,
I hardly noticed as the men in the party began tearing off my clothes.
Beneath Jill's nothing halter she wore not a stich. She was
bare-hipped, her bush wilfully displayed. Her smooth tanned thighs
stretched down nakedly to her knees, where slick black boots met them,
enclosing her calves. The boots had long, stiletto heels.
Jill held a whip in her hand, long, still partly curled up in
her fist. She smacked it aimlessly against her thigh. I lurched to the
side as the men tore off my pretty yellow dress, nearly taking me to the
floor with it. My stockings were ripped from my garters, leaving the
straps dangling uselessly as the hosiery was ruinously shorn from my
legs. My wrists were drawn behind me and handcuffed. Then, wearing
only my heels and my jewelry, with my poor garter belt straps still
wiggling in the air aimlessly, the men pushed me forward to meet my new
mistress. I stared at her, my own breasts now as naked as hers, forced
out in front of me by my hands cuffed behind my back.
"Kiss my foot!" Jill demanded, in true dominatrix fashion. Her
eyes, though, twinkled almost smilingly, and for a moment I glimpsed
what she really was. I saw a giggly, barebreasted housewife, playing a
role. This sudden, unexpected glimpse of humaneness kept me from
bolting. I knelt, slavelike, as she put a foot forward for me to pay
homage to. Acutely aware of the desire coursing through my own body, I
bent forward, relishing the sight my bare white behind presented to the
men at my rear. My pumpkin rose as my head bowed submissively, and I
found myself shiver as my stiff nipples grazed the rough stone floor.
There was no escaping the stones, my breasts were too big to keep them
off it. Quickly I kissed Jill's boot and lifted my face.
"You call that a kiss?!" Jill growled. Shivering with fright I
bent low again. Open-mouthed I gave her boot a kind of blow job,
tonguing it and kissing it wetly. My breasts dragged across the floor,
scraping my nipples.
Jill bent over and grabbed me by the hair and pulled me to my
feet. Fortunately I was able to rise as she pulled. She looked at me,
hard, then lifted a hand and cupped one of my breasts. She examined my
nipples.
"Good, no harm done," she said. "I did not realize you would
show such passion." Neither did I. My whole body seemed to ache for
some kind of release, but not from my handcuffs. I prized those for
they showed off my breasts to Jill. I was utterly in thrall to her. I
have no idea why. She produced a black neckerchief, just like the one
she wore, and tied it snugly around my throat.
She turned, a kind of pirouette, upon her spiked heels. With
two fingers remaining on my kerchief she beckoningly drew me after her.
I was aware of the swing of her lovely bottom, right in front of me. It
was smooth and white and unblemished. I followed, trippingly, scared as
a bunny rabbit on huntsman's day. Jill's whip uncoiled in her hand.
The tasseled end touched the floor, dragged along it.
We stopped before a padded trestle. Jill turned to me. Her
eyes glowed softly.
"I'm told you hold up quite well under the strap, though you
were quite a crybaby," Jill said.
"Y-Yes," I said bravely. She touched my cheek compassionately
with a finger. "The men want to see you wiggle your enchanting ass all
around. Like you'd never be able to do it, if left simply on your own.
Do you understand?" she asked. I bit my lip, nodded. I was acutely
aware of the men, their eyes drilling into me from behind.
Jill walked behind me, unlocked my handcuffs. Happily I
recovered my wrists, bringing them in front of me and rubbing them.
Jill walked to a shelf. I watched, my hands playing fearfully over my
bottom cheeks, as she scanned the shelf, above which was a wide array of
flagellation equipment. But when Jill returned she was holding
something more ominous. A large black dildo. She screwed it into the
end of the trestle. Then she handed me a jar of gel and told me to
grease the thing up. I obeyed, praying the idiot device wasn't meant
for me.
The trestle was mounted entirely on a wooden platform.
However, standing at one end of the trestle, I managed to remain on the
stone floor. It was ice cold against my bare feet but I preferred it to
getting up on that platform! The dildo was at about chest height,
stretching right up to the level of my face. When I was done
lubricating the dildo Jill advised me that the gel was organic, not
industrial, safe for human consumption. She ordered me to kiss the
cock.
Shyly, I obeyed. It was a quick kiss, nothing more, but Jill
seemed to find it acceptable. Or she was impatient. She ordered me to
mount the platform. She held my hand as I stepped up, for I was so
nervous I felt like collapsing. Then she told me to put both my hands
on the trestle and swing my leg over the end, right where the cock was!
Shivering, I lifted one of my legs and straddled the monstrous
penis. "It's to keep your bottom up nice and high, dear, that's all,"
Jill told me. "Unless, of course, you want to impale yourself on it."
I was very sure that I didn't. All the same, as my foot touched the
platform on the other side the penis nosed up between my lovelips. With
a little shriek I stood on tiptoe, my hands still flat on the trestle.
Breasts wobbling, my hair hanging down around my face, my pretty bottom
poised above the thing, I stared down at it. Jill laughed, the men
laughed. She put a hand on my back and eased me down until my face lay
flat upon the trestle. My ass, still upreared, stayed just clear of the
cock because I remained staunchly on my tiptoes.
Jill took my hands and drew them down on either side of the
trestle. She secured them to the floor with short lengths of chain. My
wrists were bound once more, this time to show off my bottom.
I'd noticed an I.V. pole off to one side, with a bottle hanging
from it, but paid little attention. It was just one of many awful
things looming at me from the semi-darkness of the dungeon. Suddenly,
though, I felt Jill's fingers at my ass cheeks, dividing them, and
realized to my horror the full extent of what was in store for me.
"Please! I want to get up!" I cried. With a ruthless little
push Jill inserted the end of a greased enema tube into my fanny. She
pushed it up a good ways so it wouldn't fall out.
"Now we're going to fill you up!" Jill said brightly. She
twisted a release valve on the base of the bag hanging from the I.V.
pole. Fluid flooded into my rectum. My protests and imprecations were
ignored. When she thought I'd had enough, Jill pulled the tube out. My
exposed, violated anus winked at the men, threatening at any moment to
squirt out shit-laced fluid. What an awful fate for a proper young
lady!
"Try not to complain or scream too much or I'll be ordered to
lay it on harder," Jill whispered in my ear, letting the whip brush
meaningfully against the side of my breast. I stiffened. There was no
way I could endure this. I had to get up. But I was trapped, tied
down, hog tied!
"God, what an ass!" a man said. They'd gathered closer. A
woman consolingly caressed my brow. Her fingers trailed in my hair.
They were all naked now. I could smell her perfume. And, yes, there
was the scent of lust in the air, of pre-cum and moistened cunnies. My
own quim pouted prettily just above the dildo. It felt dewy, as if
someone had squirted a bit of honey into it. I lifted my head slightly
and saw that the men all sported fine erections, ramrod stiff, a parade
of well-hung hunks from the pages of Playgirl. I let my face settle
once more on the trestle. At least, I thought, I'm to be admired by the
very best of men.
"Let us begin, I'm too horny to wait," a woman announced. I
heard a swishing then, as of a whip being drawn back, the tail
slithering across the floor. Then there was a quick whirring and a
point of fire exploded on the left cheek of my tush! I screeched, I
lurched forward. For a moment I thought some bee had flown into the
dungeon and stung my brazen bottom.
Expertly Jill drew the whip back and let it fly again, striking
my other cheek. Amidst gritted teeth I waggled my bottom all about,
trying desperately to throw off the stinging pain. Droplets of enema
fluid flew out of my ass. Several partiers stepped back from me, not
wanting to be given an anal shower.
WHIIRRR-SNICK! Another bee sting, as awful as the first! Jill
was no slouch when it came to whipping a girl. "Please," I breathed to
the woman tousling my hair. "May I have some liquor? To ease the—"
Another sting intervened, sending me into obscene gyrations. Enema
fluid sprayed about.
"You would not wiggle your tushy around if you were
anesthetized, darling," the woman said truthfully. "Remember, this is
not punishment. It is for pleasure only, so the men can see your
adorable ass at its very finest; all the little contractions, the
flinches, the squeezings. They are very devoted to female asses and you
have one of the best."
"I wish it was ugly!" I sobbed, choking on my own tears as
another wretched sting bit into my fanny.
"Well, you will be rather splotchy back there when we're
through, and quite red, but it will heal nicely and then we can do it
again!"
"Nooo! Nooo! Nooo!" I cried out, to absolutely no avail, as
the relentless whip showered me with yet more fiery sparks.
I felt my toes weakening and suddenly they gave way. As my
heels hit the floor the dildo thrust up me, splitting my cunt wider than
anything I'd ever felt. "Oh God, no!" I yelled, but it was too late. I
felt its firmness in me and suddenly, only to relieve the inferno
assailing my bottom, I began trying to hump the awful thing.
The partiers laughed as my nether-cheeked antics above the
dildo gave way to bitch-in-heat gyrations, up and down, pressing myself
ever harder down upon the wide-girthed penis. It flexed like a real
penis, accommodating the curve of my cervix, encouraging me to go
deeper. My bottom bobbed, up and down, my thighs bending and unbending
frantically. All the while the whip kept up its pace, spurring my tush
to new obscenities of movement.
Bawdily I ground myself down upon the dildo. With shameless
squeezings and clenchings I rotated my bottom all about, desperate to
escape the whip, even as it drew new obscene movements from my fanny,
ones I'd never even known possible. Behind me and around me the men and
ladies began taking leave of me, ignoring my spectacle as they found
more intimate pleasures among themselves.
Yet Jill kept up the beat, striking me all over my tushy until
I was sure the entire thing must be red as a beet. Wickedly I worked
my ass up and down now, getting as much of the dildo into me as I could,
trying frenziedly to somehow forget the pain in my bottom by fucking
myself into bliss on the cock.
Later, lying face down in a bed, with Jill applying salve to my
wounded peach, I gathered enough of my senses together to tell her off.
"You were mean!" I said, through teeth biting into the end of
my pillow. Every touch of her fingertips made me flinch.
"Mean? Nonsense, dear! Would you have ever fucked that big
black dildo if you hadn't been whipped?"
"Certainly not," I replied.
"There, you see? Like with wiggling your ass, the whip was
necessary. You fucked it marvelously, and I spurred you on with the
whip until you orgasmed. Three times, I believe, one right after the
other."
"I only remember the first," I breathed. "I passed out after
that." A shudder ran down my spine as I remembered that giant cock
driving into me.
"You probably wouldn't have even taken a real penis that big,"
Jill smiled.
"I hope not," I said.
"Yet now here you are, triumphant, having done things you never
dreamed possible."
"Thanks a lot," I said, miserably, as yet another light touch
of her fingers sent spasms of pain rippling across my butt cheeks.
Later I stood up and looked at my bottom in the mirror. There
were little welts, pin-sized, all over it, but it hurt less now. A kind
of warm glow had taken over in my cheeks. Silently I admired myself.
I'd done quite well for a little schoolgirl, thank you. No woman could
deny me this. But I wondered, fearfully, what else waited for me in the
dungeon.
For the first time I noticed a window in my bedroom. I padded
over to it, my bare feet impressing themselves on the deep-pile rug that
carpeted the room. Here, in the bedroom, all was comfort. The sheets
were silk. Chocolate morsels, wrapped in gold foil, waited on a
nightstand by the bed, on a small china plate. A vase of roses bloomed
over the chocolates, standing straight-stemmed and thorny in a crystal
vase. I felt they must be rewarding me for my efforts in the dungeon.
Then again, I knew instinctively that other girls had preceded me here.
Other Barbis. Perhaps Melissa would herself be here one day, placed
lovingly in the bed after facing her own erotic challenges in the
dungeon.
I put my finger to the glass of the window. It was cool. Rain
fell outside, spattering the window so thoroughly that I could not see
out. Even the rain conspired to imprison me. I felt again the stinging
in my bottom. It seemed to palpate with a kind of raw energy, still
quite red and burning, framed above and below by the lovely whiteness of
my skin.
A door opened. I turned, my mouth open like the door. A woman
I did not know. Older, perhaps 40, with a mature beauty. She wore a
towel around her mid-section, crossing just below her pussy and just
below her tits. I stared curiously for a moment. Always, as I girl, I
had been taught to cover my boobies with towels wrapped in that way.
But here the rules were different, apparently. The woman's bosoms, firm
and erect, were left bare. Her hair, moist, was piled loosely atop her
head. She looked as if she had just stepped from the shower.
"Come, you must bathe," the woman said matter-of-factly to me.
"Then a bite to eat. You will be wanted again soon."
I wished to draw back, to retreat, but the rain-spattered
window blocked me. To be loved (was it love?) so...thoroughly. Surely
I was not being sought so soon. I wanted to enjoy my chocolates. To
smell the roses.
The woman advanced, took my hand, casually, as if she had taken
so many girl's hands before mine. I was the newest prize, the latest
treat, with my pert young bosoms and ever so desirable bottom. Putting
a finger in my mouth I let her lead me to wherever my fate lay. I was
naked, alone. I was on a kind of magical mystery tour, but not of the
wonders of the world, or even the better-known tourist attractions.
Instead I was on a kind of "dungeon tour" of England and South America.
Rather than visiting the main attractions, I was the main attraction.
And each new stop on the tour proved to be a place of denouement,
specially designed just for young girls like myself. The price of
admission was my maidenhood. Once the physical barriers had been
removed, such as my hymen, they worked upon my innocence, slowly
stripping it away bit by bit with wicked new perversities at every stop.
I was taken to a bathroom where a tub waited, overflowing with
scented bubbles. My "chaperone" plunged me into the hot water and began
scrubbing me. She knelt just outside the tub. Her big boobs swung
about as she worked my little body with the bath sponge. I fussed a
bit, spoiled. She scolded me, but in a gentle voice. She had seen it
all before. Little girls both loved and loathed bath time. I myself
enjoyed being washed up, but wished to loiter, to play amidst the
bubbles. Why the hurry? Were the men, despite all their other female
companions, nonetheless straining their dicks thinking of me? Surely
their testicles must be empty by now. How could they want me so soon?
Shouldn't I be allowed to go home now?
"Stop squirming so," the woman chided me. I wanted to play, to
slither about. She held me. Like an otter I would swim to freedom.
And then I realized: there was freedom in the dungeon. A shackled
freedom, to be sure. But, twisting about, all raw and exposed, crying
and weeping and farting and peeing, surely that was a kind of freedom.
Was being cooped up at school, or in an office somewhere, in a stiffly
starched blouse freedom? Type this. Erase that. Re-type this for I've
changed my mind. It dawned on me that wherever one went there were
bars, restraints, of one kind or another. But in the dungeon you were,
perhaps, more free than elsewhere for you could scream however loudly
you wished, and say whatever you wished, for the best torturers expected
you to curse them. They looked forward to it for it gave them even more
power over you. They could lay on additional strokes. But, of course,
the best ones would never hurt you, however much you cursed them. They
prized your little body more than you yourself valued it. One day I
would choose pregnancy, childbirth, the burden of wet diapers and waking
up in the middle of the night to tend a crying child, leaving my
girlhood behind forever. But, my torturer, whoever he was, would rather
imprison me in his dungeon forever, I knew, bottle me up like a precious
butterfly and make time stand still.
I was being molded into a young woman, but it was time itself
that would take the real toll. An experienced 11-year-old girl, however
worldly she might become, was still an 11-year-old girl. But as I
gazed, with piqued curiosity, at the woman bathing me, I knew she had
little time left. When I would be 25 she would be 50. Her breasts were
extraordinary, still standing up like soldier and not sagging, but she
was, like all of us here, a rarity. She had enviable beauty, not
ordinary beauty. And when time closed in on her she would no longer
come to the dungeon, for she would no longer be able to compete with the
younger, prettier women. When I was still making men tremble with need
she would be in a rocking chair, knitting, consoling herself perhaps
with the beauty of her grand-daughter, playing at her feet.
The woman drew me from the tub and quickly toweled me off.
Then, quickly, she checked my makeup, brushed my hair, trimmed my nails
and glossed them.
I was led downstairs, naked as the day I was born. "Madam?" I
asked. My voice was high, lilting, childlike. "Might not I eat first?"
"Yes dear, you will join the others at table after all. They
are enjoying a quiet repast now, taking a break from the dungeon. They
decided that you've earned a place among them. (Though, frankly, I
think the men were just too eager to wait for you any longer.) There is
still much training ahead for you, though. So don't get your hopes up
that you can just do as you please. Mind your manners and be a proper
young lady. And don't wiggle around like you did in the tub!"
With that she presented me at the open door of a large dining room. She
gave my bare bottom a little pat, pushing me forward into a roomful of
strangers.
I wandered in, hesitant, a finger hooked in my parted lips,
newly reddened with lipstick. The color matched my bottom. The men,
some barechested, others still wearing the remains of tailored business
suits, gave me welcoming smiles. They were happily gorging themselves
on mashed potatoes and rotisserie chicken. Sex makes you hungry.
All the females were naked. Interspersed with the men, they
sat arranged around a long, elegantly appointed table, their lithe
bodies lightly tanned, their limbs slim and their figures prettily
proportioned. Some envious feminist bureaucrat in, say, the Office of
Child Protection might think the girls got that way by playing women's
basketball or regularly hitting the gym. I knew better. They had those
figures from frequent "workouts" in the dungeon.
Blushing at my nudity, I found my way over to an empty chair,
next to Jill. She had lost even her teensy, cut-up t-shirt. She smiled
at me, I smiled back. She pointed at the chair and I noticed there was
a big plump satin cushion on it. It had the color of strawberries. I
sat down shyly, wincing. She smiled knowingly.
Glancing around, I met other eyes. They were bright,
expectant.
"Dig in! We'll be getting started again soon," Jill advised
me. I saw that the others were eating with a certain haste, as if
matters left undone beckoned. I reached for a chicken leg, rising
slightly from my chair. My breasts swung, dangled. I plucked the leg
from the serving tray set in the middle of the table. There were two of
them, spaced apart, so that everyone could feed themselves from them.
The chicken was piled atop each tray, still steaming, fresh from the
oven.
Scented perfumes mingled with the smell of food. Tearing the
skin from my piece of chicken, I realized the women must have all bathed
after their first round in the dungeon. I imagined a tubful of women,
all naked and slithering amongst one another, still amorous from their
dungeon orgy. Perhaps the men watched the women soap themselves,
growing hard again in the process. No doubt the women beckoned the men
close and insisted on scrubbing their genitals, at least, and their
tight asses, their legs, their chests. So we were all squeaky clean now
and ready for more action, I thought. My clitty sparkled at the
thought, despite my misgivings about what they had planned for me. I
opened my legs. I stroked my thigh with one finger, wishing. I dared
not touch myself. They would punish me for that, extra punishment, I
was sure. And it would be so unladylike to masturbate at the dinner
table.
Looking about, I noted with secret admiration how each female's
naked bosoms swept lightly back and forth, forth and back, as she ate
her meal. They all had hard nipples. I knew their clitties must be
hard too, like mine. I glanced over at Jill. She had fine, proud
breasts, firm and slightly cantilevered upward, offering her risen
nipples.
"Eat up, silly!" Jill admonished me. "We haven't much time.
The men say their balls are already bursting. It will be a long night
in the dungeon." I ate more quickly then, for I was hungry.
Servants came and went, all elderly men, and the last item
brought out was a heap of steaming moist hand towels. He offered one to
each of us from a silver tray. Like the rest, I took one and gladly
wiped all the chicken off me. Then dessert was served, cherry pie. It
was said to be in honor of me, and I blushed fiercely. When this was
done, and washed down with sparkling sherry, which made me just a little
dizzy, a woman rose. She reminded me of the 40-year-old who had bathed
me, and was not present. This female, though, was at most 25, with fine
aristocratic features. She had a slim body surmounted by a pair of
breathtaking breasts. Anna-Nicole Smith without the hips, and with
longer legs.
"Our little disciple, I hope, is ready?" she asked, turning in
her elegance to me. She seemed stylish and glamorous even though she
was without any clothing. I gulped, nodded, not knowing how else to
respond. "Good. Would you cuff her please, Jill?" the radiant beauty
requested. Surprised, I turned to see Jill holding a pair of handcuffs
dangling from one finger. With meek compliance I held my wrists out in
front of me and she snapped them on. I was a full-fledged slave once
more.
To my shock, Jill was not yet finished accoutering me. She
produced a dog collar, as if I were some female animal! Buckling it on
my neck with soft words of encouragement, she then lifted up my wrists
and drew them over my head. She snapped my handcuffed wrists to a steel
ring that was on the back of the dog collar.
I felt ridiculous. My titties wobbled freely before me,
utterly unprotected. My legs, spread upon the cushion, offered a moist
plum of a pussy to any who might thrust down an exploring hand. I would
be able to do nothing to stop him...or her. Even closing my legs would
be of little help, all the men here were quite strong. And I knew a
wilful woman could pry me open, exposing my sex to any depredations she
had in mind.
Such thoughts were interrupted by the lifting of me by my
hair. Jill pulled me to my feet. I stood awkwardly, my legs akimbo,
uncertain. I got my balance and stood for a moment with all eyes in the
room upon me. I was the center of attention. There was nothing else in
their minds at that moment except the beauty of my body. And their
wicked plans for it.
I pushed out my breasts. I felt suffused with a kind of
passionate pride. I was privileged. This was a very exclusive group.
Only the prettiest models and females were ever trained here. When they
got old, they left. And new ones took their place. I was being tested,
and if I passed, I would become one of them. If I failed, I would be
dismissed, a mere visitor, a plaything for them to while away their
hours with.
"Come, dear," Jill urged, palming my bottom, evoking a wince
from me. It was still quite sore. With steps as abbreviated as I could
get away with, I let her guide me forward, past the guests, out the
door. Down a hall we went and then, through another door, and there it
was. The dungeon! Surely I could not go through another torment here!
"Please," I whimpered, suddenly quite afraid. But, implacably,
Jill urged me over to an I.V. pole equipped with an enema bottle. Did
anyone ever get to take a normal shit here, I wondered. She forced me
to my knees. Then my face was pressed to the stone cold floor, although
she did slip a small pillow under my chest to protect my stiff-nippled
breasts.
Prising me open, Jill inserted an enema tube in my heinie. I
was shaking visibly now, terrified that I was to receive another beating
on my already chastised bottom. In went the awful enema fluid, as my
dinner guests pressed close and watched with avid eyes. Their hands
stole to each other's genitals. My suffering stimulated them.
When I was full, protesting loudly that I could take no more,
Jill turned off the enema's flow. Men lifted me up, bodily, and set me
quickly on the padded edge of a large trough. As they moved me I
strained mightily to keep my buttcheeks closed. I knew they would be
terribly angry with me if I made a mess on the floor.
I felt seized, suddenly, by the impossibility of holding back
my enema any longer. It sort of washes over you, that undying need to
let go. My legs were open, my pussy offered to all who cared to look.
I could not even think any longer of modesty.
Jill tickled my cunny, giving me permission, I hoped, to shit.
And I did. My bowels emptied themselves with a mighty, unladylike
WHOOSH! Fortunately I was over the trough now, and I hoped it was not a
feed trough. Surely it was not meant to contain my breakfast or
anything, was it? I prayed not. The trough was deep and none of my
liquid excrement splashed back up on me. It was a nice, clean dump.
Afterward Jill wiped me, as I sat shivering on the trough's edge.
Without moving me from my precarious perch, my captors undid my
handcuffs. For a moment I was grateful, until they lashed little boards
to the backs of my arms. I wondered at these. What could they possibly
be for, I asked.
"To pop them wide open. Your breasts, that is," Jill told me.
"I'm going to whip them!" I gasped in horror. "Surely you don't want
me to flog your ruined bottom, do you?" I could not even respond.
Quickly she lifted my board clad arms and drew them back on either side
of me. The boards extended from my elbows to my wrists. There was no
way to wriggle out of them. They were like a second skin, tied down to
my arms.
Drawn back, farther than I thought possible, my arms were
chained to the wall behind me. At the same time the aristocratic girl,
named Nancy, clipped my ankles into footcuffs on the floor. My feet
were wide apart. There was no closing my legs now.
I lifted my bottom off the edge of the trough, trying to
escape. My breasts, thrusting up obscenely, made a spectacle of
themselves, wobbling helplessly on my chest. There was no escape. I
couldn't get my arms detached from the wall.
My bottom thumped back down on the trough's edge. I began to
weep.
"Poor darling," Nancy cooed. Still kneeling between my open
thighs, she lifted a finger and twirled it in my pubic thatch.
"I don't want my breasts whipped!" I cried. Jill, ignoring me,
fetched a little pony whip. The end was split into several tiny tails,
as if it had been frayed there from too much use.
Jill whisked the frayed tip of the whip over my nipples. I
shuddered. My titties, responsive and utterly unprotected, shivered
under the playful assault.
Breathlessly I hoped Jill had nothing more drastic in store for
me. But then, with a determined look gathering on her face, she gave my
right breast a lick that sent me howling.
It was fear, mostly, I guess. The print of the whip on my
defenseless flesh did hurt, leaving a little red stripe, but it was not
cruel, not something that would welt me.
Another sweeping stroke followed, and other, the whip plying
and flaying my defenseless titties. My face stayed upturned, crying.
Once or twice when I bent my head down Jill put a finger beneath my
chin, lifting it. She told me she didn't want to hit me in the eyes.
I suffered nobly, like some young princess, as Jill swept her
nasty whip all over my breasts. At last, through my tears, I spied an
overhead mirror. My breasts were being painted by the whip to look like
lightly striped candy canes. Peppermint pink stripes adorned the snowy
hillocks, each one laid with sweet affection. Now and then Jill would
stop and kiss the nipples, drawing them out, making them stand as tall
and proud as possible. Then she would reward them with little flaying
bites of the whip, "tit torture," as she called it. She said some girls
had their nipples pierced, sitting on the trough, with brass rings. She
said I should be glad I was only getting a little whipping instead.
At last a man ordered Jill to stop. Nonchalantly she tossed
down her whip, as if bored with the whole affair anyway. The man
presented his nakedness to me and, with my titties smarting miserably,
thrust himself up my cunt. I could not resist.
When the first man had spent, each man in turn took his place.
Some paid "tribute" to me, others reserved their strength for their
girlfriends, satisfying themselves with a few mind-numbing pokes in my
tightness.
Exhausted, I was at last let down. My legs were stiff and I
could only walk with great difficulty, supported on either side by two
consoling women. They laid me on a bench, atop a fluffy towel. For a
while I stared at the orgy, my head turned on its side, listless. My
arms drooped down on either side of the bench. The backs of my hands
rested on the stone floor. My legs, shamelessly wide, fell off either
side of the bench. My careless feet lay still upon the floor.
I watched, half-interested, as my dinner companions fucked each
other with vigor and wild abandon. I saw Jill fucked twice, and Nancy's
ass seemed a special treasure with the men. They burrowed into its
delicate whiteness repeatedly, taking turns, until she cried. Weepily
she told them she wouldn't be able to shit for a week. They only
laughed.
Some, like Nancy, were raped whilst tied down. Others,
participating more voluntarily, were left free during their fucks. But,
in truth, the door was locked and none were free to leave the dungeon.
I learned later that it was bolted shut from outside, by one of the
elderly servants, so that none could get out until everyone had suffered
equally. Then, after a prescribed time, the servant would unbolt the
door. Wearily the sex troopers would exit, to cuddle up gratefully in
beds upstairs. The next day, renewed, they often would begin again.
This "outing," I learned, would be a short one. Some lasted a
full week, but this was just a "weekender," a break between the
Monday-Friday modeling grind. Many of the girls were models, and the
men photographers, or publishers. I don't think there were any writers,
though. That occupation seemed to attract only homely nerds. No doubt
they were at home on the weekend, reading porno novels, or writing them,
while we played for real in the dungeon.
Panting, Jill came over to me finally, bending down she kissed
me on the mouth. "Do you want to play, darling? Or would you rather go
upstairs?" I considered a moment. I was being given a choice! I had
earned the right to be amongst them, a free woman.
"Play!" I said suddenly.
"Good girl!" Jill replied. She took me by the hand. I stood
with difficulty, staggered in my first steps. "See? Even though she
hurts all over she's still willing to give it her all!" Jill declared to
the others admiringly.
Nancy, somehow recovered from her bottom-fuck, advanced on me
with a can of ice cold Redi-Whip in her hands. She shook it, a menacing
smile covering her face. I flinched as suddenly she squirted a stream
of white cream on my breasts. Then, as I fought to block my breasts
with my hands, she swooped down beneath my arms and shot my pussy. I
laughed, delighted and amazed. I was deliciously sticky. I took my
pleasure wherever I could that night. With my breasts and cunt and
bottom sore, I had to rely on my mouth, my hands, even my silky mane of
blonde hair, twisting it round a man's cock and making him spurt. It
was my first taste of real freedom in a sexual environment, and I loved
it.
30
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--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
\ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /